Odds On: A Novel Page 19

  “I’m feeling indiscreet tonight,” Annette said, “and anyway, it’s a very dark table.”

  “What will you drink?”

  “Anything,” she said, lighting a cigarette. The sight of the flame made him nervous.

  “Champagne,” he decided. He would give her lots of champagne, and pray her bladder was small.

  She smiled. “It is a party.”

  He called for the wine list, and ordered a good Spanish vintage.

  “Isn’t that rather expensive?”

  “I’m in a mood to celebrate.”

  She shifted in her chair, and he heard her cross her nylon-sheathed legs. Annette was wearing a chiffon print blouse, with ruffles at the neck and cuff, and a black silk skirt. Looking at her, he felt a momentary pang of desire. It was the tension and excitement, he knew, of the robbery. He was keyed up, full of nervous energy, almost drowned in his own adrenalin. It wasn’t like the old days, when he could have worked his way through a job like this with scarcely a quick heartbeat. He sighed.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No. Flamenco music always makes me sad.”

  She looked across to the guitarist, as if seeing him for the first time. “It’s terribly difficult, I’m told. There are only a few remaining masters, and the art is dying out. An apprenticeship takes years, and when you’re finally through, you’re still nothing but a cheap performer in a nightclub.”

  The waiter brought the champagne, and uncorked it with a satisfying pop. They sipped it. “Dry enough for you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Who’s minding the store?”

  “The desk? One of the girls. Normally Mr. Bonnard would do it, but he’s working in his office.”

  “Not a very pleasant way to spend Saturday night.” Bryan was not worried; the fire would draw him out.

  “You said you were in a mood to celebrate,” Annette said.

  “I am,” Bryan said. “This is a special day for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “My birthday.”

  “Congratulations.” She raised her glass in a toast, and drained it. He refilled it.

  That’s a good girl, he thought, as he watched her bring the glass to her lips again. Drink up, drink up.

  Looking elegant and unconcerned, Jencks stepped outside into the damp night air and surveyed the pool. It was lighted, and looked inviting, but he was alone; thunder rolled, and he saw the first brief slash of lightning flicker across the sky. He walked to the seaward side of the hotel, to the saltwater pool. There he stopped, took out a cigarette, and flicked his lighter. The flame shot up; startled, he shut it again. He tried a second time, but once again the flame leapt alarmingly high. On the third attempt, he lit the cigarette, and puffed for a moment, looking out at the sea. A careful observer would have noticed that he was not inhaling.

  Offshore, in a boat that rocked and tossed in the rising wind, a man known only as Barry observed the Reina through binoculars. He was accustomed to the ocean, and so was able to compensate for the movements of his ship and keep his eyes trained on the hotel. He saw the three brief flares, and checked his watch—11:30. That was the final signal, the last contact he would have before he drew close to the pier at 12:50 to receive the package.

  As Barry watched, the first heavy drops of water splattered down. It was going to be a hell of a storm, he thought. He went forward to get his slicker. It was a black slicker; Jencks had specified that. He seemed to think of everything.

  Feeling tired and depressed, Miguel closed the door softly behind him. He immediately recognized the occupant of this room by its contents—five suitcases, all large, all partially unpacked, an immense heap of bananas, and a vast shelf of cosmetics and powders along one dresser. Must be the little English lady with the nice smile and the hash for sale. Sweet old crook—she’d wanted a fortune for the stuff.

  He smiled and went to work. She was bound to have jewels here somewhere.

  Annette giggled foolishly as the waiter brought the fourth bottle of champagne. “You’re trying to get me drunk,” she said, in a voice so slurred he could barely understand it

  “Not true,” he said. He tried to estimate the volume she had drunk in the last hour. At the very least, it was approaching two and a half liters. What was the matter with her? She was like a veteran pub crawler, totally hardened to the call of nature.

  The cork popped, interrupting the song of a mediocre singer who was pressing her breasts into the microphone on stage.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass.

  Annette raised hers and gulped it down greedily. “Ummmm,” she said, closing her eyes. “Ummmm.”

  He refilled her glass. It seemed he had spent the whole evening refilling her glass.

  “Again?” She regarded the bubbles thoughtfully, and bent down to listen to them. “They’re saying something,” she said.

  “What are they saying?”

  “That you’re a wicked man who wants to get little girls drunk.”

  “Never. Cheers.”

  Again, they raised their glasses; again, she downed hers in a series of noisy swallows.

  “I’ve had a lot,” she said.

  “Yes?” he asked, hopefully.

  “So you better give me more.”

  He smiled weakly. “With pleasure.” Bryan was acutely aware of the Chesterfields in his pocket. It was now almost midnight. He had to get rid of the thing, and soon.

  “Nice champagne,” Annette said, “very very nice. But I have something to tell you.”

  He looked over at her. She was swaying back and forth on her chair.

  “It’s time,” she said. “Where is it?”

  “To the left, through the red door.”

  Without another word, she got up and walked off. He heaved a sigh of relief, reached into his pocket and tossed the Chesterfields into the corner. It landed next to the draperies with a dull thud. Nobody looked over; nobody heard. The singer was singing something about wet Paris streets. She seemed sad.

  Bryan hoped Miguel would get to Jencks with the news; it was distressing, something he was not sure about. Well, no matter. The operation would be completed now, no matter what. He couldn’t worry about little things.

  He checked his watch again. It was midnight. In less than an hour, it would be all over.

  SUNDAY MORNING JUNE TWENTY-SECOND (12:00–1:00 a.m.)

  AT 12:35, JENCKS WALKED out of the reading room, where he had been glancing through month-old issues of Life and Look. As he entered the lobby, he met Miguel.

  “Look,” Miguel said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Not here,” Jencks hissed. “Not now.”

  “Listen, it’s—”

  “Save it. Get back to work.”

  He walked to the door, and stood with the doorman. They talked for several minutes about the rain, which was now falling in heavy sheets. The wind was high, and the doorman said that the sea was acting up; the skiff might tear loose from the mooring. The doorman had heard Mr. Bonnard, the manager, send someone to check on it.

  Anyway, it was the doorman’s opinion that the entire hotel might as well wash away in the storm. With all due respect to the clients, it wasn’t worth a damn. Did Mr. Jencks know that the elevator was broken again? Jencks said he’d heard about it. Well, the doorman knew that it had broken down three times before in the past year. Junk, that was what the Reina was. Shoddy from start to finish. With all due respect, sir.

  When Jencks left the man, he was still ranting. A taxi was just pulling up into the traffic circle.

  He walked across the lobby to the phone booth and stepped inside. The light went on as he shut the door. He reached up and unscrewed the bulb, throwing the booth into darkness. He folded the lapels of his jacket over, covering his white shirt, and clipped them shut with the safety pin. Then he brought out his hood and pulled it over his head; finally, he slipped on his thin black gloves. He was now dressed entirely in black. He sat patiently, waiting. He did
not look at his watch—there was no need to.

  Jean-Paul, sitting alone at the nightclub bar with his Cutty Sark and water, listened absently to the fat horse onstage mumbling her bad French. Suddenly, there was a loud whoosh as if a window had blown open. He looked over and saw that one wall of the nightclub was a sheet of flame. People were leaping up from their tables; chairs scraped and were knocked back; women screamed.

  He grabbed a passing waiter. “Where’s the fire extinguisher?” The waiter was shocked, almost speechless. His lips moved but nothing came out. Jean-Paul shook him. “Where is it?”

  “There,” he finally managed to say, “by the toilets.”

  The room was a madhouse. The singer, like an old trouper, insisted on continuing her song, but nobody was calmed by her efforts. A woman fainted. People ran everywhere. Somebody smashed a window in an effort to escape, but that only made it worse—a strong wind fanned the flames, which now curled around the ceiling.

  Jean-Paul jumped off his stool and pushed through the chaos of furniture and people. It was slow business, but he kept his eyes fixed on the red cylinder hanging next to the bathroom door. Why hadn’t the staff already gotten to it? Black smoke stung his eyes; his shoes crunched on broken glass.

  At that moment, he saw Mr. Bonnard burst into the room, knocking people aside with amazing strength and remarkable lack of tact. He was shouting something to the head-waiter, who seemed suddenly to come to his senses and run for the extinguisher.

  At that moment, all the lights in the room went out.

  Jencks stepped out of the phone booth and pressed his back to the wall. It was pitch black in the lobby; the girl behind the desk was screaming hysterically. He would have to hurry. At any minute, she would come to her senses and strike a match.

  He took seven measured steps straight ahead, turned a careful right angle, and paced off three more strides. Stretching his hand forward, he touched a wall. People, running and shouting, brushed against him. He smelled heavy, sooty smoke.

  He moved cautiously along the wall. There were more people in the lobby now. Several collided with him, but continued on. There was so much confusion, none of them would remember later. He felt the edge of a closed door, and ran his hand up and down, feeling for the knob. No knob. Must be the wrong side—yes, he felt the hinges.

  The door was three feet wide. One pace. He felt another crack, and then his hand gripped the knob. Mr. Bonnard’s office. Locked.

  He reached in his pocket and withdrew the key. A moment later he was inside, the door shut behind him. Only now did he dare flick on his pencil flashlight. Its narrow beam illuminated the clutter of letters and forms he had seen that morning. A half-eaten sandwich lay alongside.

  He moved around behind the desk and opened the closet door. Then he heard a key scratching in the lock. Quickly, he stepped into the closet, held his breath, and prayed.

  The door opened. Mr. Bonnard entered, breathing heavily, a candle in his hand. The yellow flicker dimly lit the room. Outside, he could hear screams and running feet. Mr. Bonnard was alone, swearing softly to himself in German between gasping breaths.

  Mr. Bonnard went to his desk and began rummaging through all the drawers. Jencks watched tensely; the closet door was ajar, and although he was dressed in black, Mr. Bonnard had only to look closely and Jencks would be seen.

  Mr. Bonnard continued to mutter, to rummage. He was forced to work one-handed, the other gripped the candle. Finally, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction and produced two flashlights. He checked them quickly. One worked, the other didn’t. He threw the faulty one back in the drawer and straightened up to go.

  He hesitated for a moment, casting the beam of the flashlight around the room, frowning suspiciously. Then, abruptly, he left, shutting the door behind him.

  Like a shadow, Jencks stepped out and bent to the safe. His fingers ran over the crackle gray surface of the metal. He twirled the dial expertly.

  Outside, he heard Mr. Bonnard bellowing like a wounded buffalo. He paid no attention; his attention was centered on his fingertips, spinning the dial gently. Right, then left … right, finally left.… The heavy door swung open.

  Eagerly, he flashed his light inside.

  He could not believe his eyes.

  The cab driver slammed his doors and shoved the car into first gear. He roared off, around the circle and across the bridge. It was a snap, he thought: the easiest 5,000 pesetas he had ever made.

  Barry, drawing his boat up to the water-skiing dock, saw all the lights in the hotel go out at once. He swore softly. He should have known—a robbery. The big time. He had been a fool to take on this job for only two grand. He could have gotten twice as much, three times as much. And he would have deserved it; he had to live in this country, and it was going to be damned tough when the police started snooping around. A little vacation might be in order, perhaps a month or two in Lisbon. He could stay with his aunt.

  Jencks stared, dumbfounded. He could not believe his eyes. Except for some neatly folded papers of no value, the safe was empty. It was impossible, absolutely impossible. He shined his light into all the corners, and shuffled through the papers.

  Nothing.

  Shaken, he closed the door and stepped back. His mind told him he had to keep moving, had to stay with the schedule or everything would be lost. Automatically, he walked to the door, turned off his flashlight, and stepped into the hall.

  The smell of smoke was very strong, now. People were gasping and coughing; their voices had undertones of fright. He worked his way back along the wall, and bumped into Bryan.

  “Got it?” Jencks asked. There was only one answer that he could think of—nobody bothered with the safe, but kept their money and jewels in their rooms.

  “No,” Bryan said.

  Jencks stiffened. “Why not?”

  “Because there was nothing to get. Miguel tried to tell you. We searched the rooms and came up with practically nothing—maybe two hundred dollars in checks and bills, no more. We thought it must all be in the hotel safe.”

  Jencks said nothing. His mind was working furiously, blocking out the noise and chaos around him.

  “Was it?” Bryan asked.

  “No,” Jencks said. “The safe was empty.”

  “Empty!”

  “Shut up,” Jencks growled. “Let me think this out. Just shut up for a minute.”

  “The schedule—”

  “Screw the schedule.”

  Bryan stood patiently, listening to the people running past him and the drumming of the rain outside. The storm had reached a feverish pitch. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew Jencks would figure it out sooner than he could hope to.

  When he finally spoke, Jencks’ voice was low, with a tone of awe that was almost admiration “Somebody’s beaten us to it,” he said at last. “We’ve been robbed!”

  There was a muffled rumble, like thunder, but the two men knew better. The bridge had just blown.

  MORNING, JUNE TWENTY-SECOND (1:00 a.m.–12:00 noon)

  THE DOORMAN HAD SEEN it happen. Right before his very eyes, the far end of the bridge had bucked up, twisted, and plunged down out of sight. His status as the only eyewitness made him the center of attention of a large crowd which had gathered in the rain and howling wind to look at the wreckage of girders and struts. The people were soaked and dripping, hair plastered to their faces, but they talked with excitement and nervous animation. It was like a lawn party, the doorman thought with mild amusement. He had expected something like this to happen before long. The whole hotel was so shoddily built. He had a brother who worked construction in Zaragoza, and his brother had pronounced the Reina badly built. That was enough for the doorman.

  Mr. Bonnard was questioning him, shaking his finger at him in the rain. Mr. Bonnard looked ridiculous, with his thin wispy hair hanging down into his eyes. The doorman suppressed a smile.

  “And that’s all you saw?”

  “That’s all,” the doorman said.
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  Mr. Bonnard nodded, shivered, and went inside. Slowly, the crowd became bored with the wrecked bridge, and began to feel the downpour and the chilly wind. People turned into the lobby in groups of two and three. It was then that the doorman remembered the taxicab; the doors slamming in the rain, the car roaring across the bridge shortly before it collapsed.

  But he forgot it a moment later, when Mr. Bonnard called him in to help set candles around the hotel. As the manager said, they would not be needing a doorman that night.

  Annette was at the desk, talking to the worried guests. The entire lobby was illuminated by candles, which gave it a strangely funereal aspect. The clients were unhappy. They wanted to know why—why the elevator didn’t work, why the lights had gone out, why the bridge had collapsed. What did the hotel intend to do about it? Annette assured them that adequate compensation would be made, that they would be ferried to the mainland by boat in the morning, that there was nothing to fear, that everything was under control. She announced that the hotel’s auxiliary generator would soon begin supplying electricity, and that yes, they would be able to have their boiled eggs and toast in the morning. Yes, madam. Certainly. Yes sir, sorry sir, of course, sir. The questions continued, the complaints were endless. It was a nightmare.

  She had lost track of Bryan at the nightclub, in the confusion of the fire. The fire seemed manageable when she left, but the lobby was filled with smoke, and she wondered. A little lady with quivering jowls was asking her about bananas—bananas! She answered politely, muttering to herself. Another man pushed to the front; Annette informed him that every effort would be made to see that he made his air connection at Barcelona in the morning. Now a woman, who wanted to see the manager. That was not possible. Yes, of course she could have more blankets for her bed. The chambermaid would see to it.

  And so it went, on into the morning until she lost her ability to smile, and her voice grew hoarse.